


An Ache I Still Remember

by a tattered rose (atr)



Category: Smash (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-26
Updated: 2013-04-17
Packaged: 2017-11-06 02:00:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/413470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atr/pseuds/a%20tattered%20rose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"He knew where everything was, he just couldn't bring himself to touch them. They weren't his."</i>  Derek and Ivy have some letting go to do, before they can move on.   Nothing says they can't move on together.  Eventually.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I think of when we were together

He knew where everything was, he just couldn't bring himself to touch them. They weren't his.

 

It would be too domestic to say that she had her own space, but a couple of dresses hung, bright and patterned, next to the line of desaturated grays and blacks and the occasional dark brown or streak of white. He folded them over to fit in the bag, knowing that she'd hate the wrinkles and creases. They'd come in wrapped around her and that was how they were supposed to have left. Not flat, empty and lifeless.

 

A few pairs of panties and a bra, silk nightie and even more interesting frills had co-opted part of his sock drawer. He hadn't exactly offered and she hadn't exactly asked, but the first time she'd come over straight from the studio with lingerie in her bag he'd tossed her cast-offs in his hamper for his laundry service to sort out.

 

When she'd looked for them later, he'd pointed to the dresser. When she left the next morning, that was where she left his favourite black corset.

 

It was easier.

 

They were already neatly stacked, but he piled them in one at a time anyway.

 

His bathroom had been easier for her to move into. The toothbrush hadn't even been hers - it was one of the spares his decorator had left for guests – few that he had. She'd brought her own brand of toothpaste because she hated his. Sometimes he used hers when she wasn't around. He thought she probably knew, and didn't seem to care. It was what he used at her place anyway.

 

These weren't things she necessarily wanted back, but he thought she'd want the proof that he didn't still have them. He tucked them into a side pocket, along with her brush and comb, lotion and conditioner, shampoo and body wash. He liked that it left her smelling pink and scrubbed when she came out tucked into a towel. Sometimes he wished she would use his things again, like when she first spent the night. It was fascinating how different they smelled on her hair and skin, close and secret.

 

The room looked bare without them.

 

Her razor. She'd been very touchy the first time he wandered in while she perched on the edge of the tub, running the blade up her calf. He'd rolled his eyes and sighed, walking right back out. Then found a little too much fun when she was done, tickling behind her knees and testing every inch of skin for a stray hair.

 

The next week they'd had a break in the production schedule, and she'd gone for a wax, stowing the razor on the shelf above his.

 

There was a handful of jewelry in his nightstand. Nothing she cared too much about: a couple pairs of large earrings, a necklace, chunky rings and a ridiculous bracelet that had dragged cool and heavy down his chest.

 

The bag was still only half-full. He felt like there should be more. She was – she'd been – all over his place, or at least it had felt that way. As it turned out, she'd never left much of herself at all.

 

Maybe it was because he'd never seen the point in having much of his own. And her apartment was layered with her things, each and every one somehow making sense.

 

Or maybe it was because he'd thought he liked things clean, smooth, black and white in updated modern, straight from a magazine. Which it was. When he was done with it, his designer had kicked him out for a day so he could bring a camera crew in.

 

She was nothing but colour and texture and carefree laughter dusting the walls. Next to her, his place felt like a blank canvas, waiting...

 

Not that there'd been much to laugh about, lately. He'd assumed it would be back when this latest stressful phase of Bombshell had passed.

 

He ignored Tom, waiting near the door, and crossed into the kitchen instead. A box of her tea – technically he'd ordered it with his weekly groceries, but she'd used it, smiling over the rim of her mug. It wasn't like he would ever drink it. An empty water bottle, left behind at some point he couldn't remember. It had been there for so long it looked like it belonged there, next to his highball glasses.

 

They were dropped into the bag, carelessly, self-conscious now that he had an audience.

 

She had some things in the fridge, but he was hardly going to send them over. Fruit and her mandated skim milk and yoghurt would be going a bit far, even if the goal was to pull her completely out of his life.

  
Was there anything else?

 

A few CDs by his stereo. Life was digital, nowadays, but there were a few things she would only listen to "uncompressed." He suspected she would prefer to use records, if she had the space or the cash.

 

He would have bought them for her, if she'd ever brought it up. Would have put it anywhere she liked. For years he'd had one, even a large-ish collection of vinyl lined up, vaguely alphabetized and gathering dust. He'd hired someone to take them away, years ago.

 

That was all, he thought, mentally walking through every room, imagining her there, what she would be doing. He pulled a scarf off his coat rack. There was nothing else but memories.

 

The zipper hissed finality in an empty sort of way.

 

Tom took the bag without a word.

 

He was relieved about that. He didn't want to talk about it.

 

As soon as the door shut, he sat on the stairs, staring at the bag Tom had left behind.

 

"Oh good, you're home!" Tom had announced, rather unnecessarily.

 

"Clearly." He'd sighed. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

 

"Well, Ivy was doing some spring cleaning, you know, out with the old, in with the new range of lipsticks..."

 

"Point, Tom?"

 

He'd winced. "She just thought you might like these back – some things you'd left over at her place."

 

He'd glared down at one of his own duffels, a little confused, though hell if he'd admit it. When he hadn't moved to take it, Tom had put it carefully to the side.

 

"And she thinks she might have left some of her things over here."

 

Prevarication was a trait he'd never liked in Tom. "She _thinks_?"

 

Tom dropped the act. Derek thought he was happy about it – not being foolish was something Tom used to say he liked about _him_. "Look, now that you two have broken up, she wants her stuff. And she is, understandably, a little afraid to come over herself, so I said I'd do it."

 

He wanted to know what _that_ was supposed to mean, but he certainly wasn't going to ask _Tom_.

 

So he'd taken the bag and gone upstairs without another word.

 

~*

 

She was curled into a ball waiting for Tom. Their brief phone conversation hadn't made perfect sense from her end, but he'd picked up the gist and promised to come right over.

 

Her closet stared back at her, and it was like she was a little girl, afraid of monsters in the dark. Or, in this case, a big girl shying away from a dark stripe in a row of colour and light.

 

Derek's clothes.

 

The plan was to have someone help her, but the waiting was too much and she wanted, needed, to root him out herself.

 

His duffel was under her bed alongside her own luggage. She'd packed it for him. Not exactly. She'd pulled it out of a closet and pitched it next to him one morning, telling him to put something in it so he wouldn't always leave her place smelling like sex.

 

He didn't (usually). But she already had a few outfits at his condo, and didn't want to be the only one. Not that it was a big deal. They were only clothes, after all.

 

Everything he owned looked roughly the same, all grays and blacks, soft stretchy materials with the occasional dark denim or dress shirt with the crisp worn out.

 

She folded a couple of long sleeve tops, starting a pile on her bed. A dark dress shirt. Another, worn to a soft finish. She ran her fingers along the collar and down the buttons. She'd put it on for him once, when they were in the middle of a relaxed night in. Almost every night was a night in, though they weren't always relaxed. Unbuttoned just enough to hint that she had nothing on underneath, she'd panicked a little at his serious reaction, examining her critically with a hint of glare. She'd been halfway back to the bathroom, fingers fumbling at the front, before he caught her around the waist and smoothed the fabric against her stomach.

 

He'd finished unbuttoning her not long after that, but the shirt had never quite made it all the way off.

 

Jeans and trousers joined the stack. A pair of his loose rehearsal pants. If she didn't need to give everything back, she would keep them. He was tall but lean, and the net result of her curvy figure meant they fit her just as well. So long as she rolled the bottoms up a foot.

 

She'd borrow them sometimes, when she was lounging around and her usual yoga pants weren't feeling comfy. One night he'd come over unexpectedly when a meeting was canceled at the last minute, and found her in them.

 

She'd been blushing pretty badly. All he'd done was raise an eyebrow, laugh, and spend a good portion of the evening finding all the interesting ways in which he could _not_ take them off of her.

 

A quick guesstimation later, and one pile became two, roughly level in the bottom of the bag.

 

She emptied her sock drawer on top, and fished her things out. It was easier. When she wasn't in sneakers at the gym she was always in dance shoes, or in regular heels.

 

There was something pleasant about pulling her laundry from the machines and sorting out the male from the female. It was fun to be one of those people who were instantly more interesting, by virtue of the invisible person who fit that second set of clothing.

 

She washed all his clothes that way, when he tossed them into her hamper. He had everything dry cleaned, but most of it was marked washable and the alternative would be a ridiculous bill.

  
They didn't smell the same, fresh from a dryer, he had to have noticed. But he never seemed to care.

 

There wasn't much in the bathroom. An electric razor, lying next to her tampons. It was funny: Derek was always a little rumpled, like he didn't give a damn. Really, he was a little vain, keeping his scruff at his preferred length. Even his trademark shock of hair had a little help. She put the cream respectfully under his shirts. He liked to pretend it didn't exist.

 

He always used her shampoo and soap, which was a weird way to hold back from the intimacy of shared toiletries. His usual brands left him clean and manly. Hers left him vaguely floral and citrusy. It always made her giggle, sniffing down his neck and chest and burying her nose against his scalp.

 

A couple of times someone else had noticed, shot him a strange look as they stood too close and he railed about something or other. She'd giggle, and when the other person had gone off he'd give her an annoyed look that meant he wasn't really annoyed at all.

 

Maybe that was why he did it. The sniffing and the the insider secret. That thought caused a pang.

 

Toothbrush, which she dropped in the trash.

 

A belt, hanging off the side of her dresser. A scarf that had been looped over her dressmaker's dummy for so long that she'd forgotten it didn't really belong.

 

A couple books on Marilyn she'd borrowed. The library could only offer up so many, and she'd picked up a few from Amazon, along with the DVDs. But Derek had everything, or near enough.

 

An old script she found under a pile of movies on her TV. It was one he'd read when Bombshell was up in the air. Probably she should recycle it, but he might want it. Into the bag it went. Along with what turned out to be a marked up score for Mr. & Mrs. Smith. Oops. It had looked like scratch paper when face down, and she'd doodled on the back, keeping tally for an ill-fated game of charades with Sam, Dennis, and Jessica.

 

That was it.

  
She was taking a last scan when Tom knocked on the door.

 

"Hey, are you okay? What's happening?"

 

Leaving him to close the door, she zipped up everything of Derek she had (minus memories she couldn't shake), and held it up, helpless. "I did it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As is often the case, title and initial inspiration from a song. For this story: "Somebody That I Used To Know" by Goyte.


	2. felt so lonely in your company

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes a line pilfered from Power Play, for the 8.2 people in the world who might recognize it, if they were also Smash fans.

She'd been offered a part in another workshop. Her agent had sent the pages over that morning. It would probably go nowhere, like most new shows, but it was a solo and a duet and the character had promise.

 

The pages were heavy and she was jittery. Not that she hadn't done dozens of these before, over the years. But it had been so long, Bombshell had gone so far, that she stuck the pages into her bag and spent an hour at the gym sweating out the nerves and washing them away before settling in at her favourite cafe to try again.

 

The comings and goings and the heavy iron chairs kept her right where she needed to be: grounded and logical. The workshop was a good idea, a good opportunity. It wasn't like she was busy. This was as least better than her ensemble role in Bombshell had been. And it was never a bad idea to stick your fingers in a few more pies; the fragments of points you could pick up, even this early, was what kept many an actor from starving during lean times.

 

Finger tapping along absentmindedly on her coffee cup, she hummed the melody underneath the ambient noise. Actually, it was rather nice, and she was already picking out places where she could draw out emotion and pull the audience along. Maybe it was a bit too reminiscent of Into the Woods, but the writers were new, and there was plenty of time f-

 

Someone dropped heavily into the seat across from her, even though the place was half-empty.

 

"Derek." The soft, surprised tone was not in any of the scripts she'd rehearsed, thinking about the first time she'd see him after...

 

"Candy From Strangers?" He inclined his head, thumb rubbing over the side of his cup.

 

She collected herself. "Yes."

 

"Tom." He clarified, to her silent question. "It won't go anywhere."

  
As if she didn't know that. Not everyone could just stumble into a Bombshell, and not everyone had the luxury to pick and choose. As if he didn't know that.

 

She made a noncommittal sound, and flipped over to a page of dialogue, trying to focus on the words while hyper aware of him lounging so close his sneakers were almost nudging her bag. Most of her lines were nothing special, but with the right emphasis and pauses – she wasn't afraid to play for laughs.

 

Or at least two lines had promise, since that's what she kept reading, over and over, cycling back when her attention wandered. When it reached the point past which she could reasonably pretend to still be on the same page, and he was still sitting there, being quiet, she brought up the only other thing there was to talk about. Even if she didn't want to.

 

"I hear Bombshell is doing well." Tactfully, no one had brought up details, but with funding secured, they were moving swiftly on towards Broadway.

 

"Yes." He looked a little cranky, but that was his problem.

 

Nothing more was forthcoming. Fine. He was the one who'd sat down. If he'd expected anything more from her, she didn't owe it to him to figure it out. She moved on to the next page, on which she'd already made a couple notes.

 

Eventually, he'd give up and go away, and it would be over with. Broadway was a tiny community and they had people in common, so avoiding him entirely probably wasn't possible. But still, first meeting, no casualties. It could only go up from here.

 

"Look, Ivy," he leaned forwards, elbows almost on her side of the small table. "You know I had to, it's about the show. You know that."

 

Unless it went further down.

 

"So what," she cut indignant, "It's all my fault now?"

 

"Of course not-"

 

"Bombshell is fine, I'm not even _there_." _She_ was. Bombshell had its Marilyn. She leaned forward herself, hissing the words. "What else could you possibly want from me?" She would have left anyway. She couldn't stand in the shadows watching K- watching _her_ catapult to fame using phrasing and choreography she hadn't – _couldn't_ have - developed. It happened all the time but not like this. She would have left anyway.

 

She hadn't needed the non-subtle comments spread through second hand gossip, that her continued presence was only upsetting their star.

 

Bastards.

 

Would have served _her_ right, after all those weeks spent screaming in her ear, simpering for every scrap of attention and pretending she didn't want any of it, it just happened! To! Her! Because Oh! She's just a Sweet! Perfect! Innocent! Girl from Iowa! And-

 

Who knew what her internal rant looked like from the outside. Probably pretty pissed. Derek's eyes were on the floor somewhere near the next table over. Suddenly she didn't want him to run. She wanted him to try and explain, justify using her and lying to her and never even giving her a fair chance. She wanted to break him down until... until something. She'd know it when she had it.

 

Finger pads stopped scraping over his thumbnail for half a second as he met her eyes, started up again as he looked away. "What was I was supposed to do? " He held the pause as his eyes held hers.

 

Hello, Further Depths of Hell. Now he wanted her to tell him how to not piss off his next girlfriend. Everyone had stayed away from that topic entirely, but it wasn't as if it hadn't crossed her mind that Newly Single Iowa would jump at the chance to date her Adoring and Powerful Director. Every time he got near her she'd wiggle and hold her breath like he was her first crush.

 

And now he wanted her to once again be the stand in, work out all the kinks so when it was show time, the lead would find it all running smoothly.

 

"For starters," she had actually intended to storm off, but the chance to slap him, even a little, the very real possibility that this would be the only chance she ever got, won out. Even if it became just another way Iowa benefited from her pain. "Standing up your girlfriend to screw someone else is pretty much the universal definition of a bad idea."

  
The tragedy was, that hadn't actually been the worst of it.

 

"You slept with Dev," he calmly replied. Then, after a pause, "and Lyle."

 

Someone had told him. Of course, he didn't even care. In his world, sex was just a power play.

 

"I didn't sleep with Lyle," she countered. She hadn't, and wouldn't have. Especially not with a room full of people downstairs. Some flirting, a little making out was all she had been expecting, before they'd run into Eileen.

 

Not that this was a real defense, but he gave her the point anyway.

 

"And Dev," she didn't know why she felt the need to defend herself at all, when he was the one who was always abandoning her to mess around. "I slept with him _after_ you slept with Rebecca."

 

He narrowed his eyes, but there was only a hint of edge to his voice. "I told you why I-"

 

"No, you didn't. You gave me another stupid story about how you're always right."

 

"I never said-"

 

"You asked what you could have done instead? You're a smart guy, figure it out." She threw words from their past at him, because they haunted her.

 

"That's it?" His voice was strained.

 

She shook her head. In for a penny, in for a pound. This wasn't a conversation she intended to have again, and she didn't want to have it only halfway.

 

"You always say 'that's the truth,' like it means something. It doesn't. You do lie, Derek," his shoulders twitched, "And you lie about things that matter."

 

"I never told you anything that wasn't true."

 

She scooted back in her chair. "The sad thing is, I believe you believe that." And he believed passionately. She missed that. "But you also leave out a lot of important things."

 

"Like?" He dug his fingers into his arm.

 

Endless nights flashed through her mind. "Like you were never going to give me Marilyn. Not for real."

 

"I didn't know that."

 

"Why did you go over to Karen's place in the middle of the night to apologize?"

 

He sighed, another conversation he thought he'd already resolved. "Because you told me to."

 

"You're blaming me, again?"

 

"Why did you lie about your voice going, and wait to fall apart in the middle of rehearsal?" he countered.

 

His voice was starting to match her own, cutting but not quite mean. She blinked. Partly because she'd thought he was too groggy that morning to remember anything. Mostly because, sadly, this was probably as honest as they'd ever been. Too little, too late. It hurt like anything, but maybe it always needed to happen.

 

"You know why."

 

His eyebrows raised.

 

"You would have taken me out and put in Karen in a heartbeat."

 

His jaw tightened. "Which we almost had to do anyway."

 

She let it drop. She didn't want to talk about the drugs he'd bullied her into taking, and everything that happened after. He didn't know, she didn't want him to know. It almost didn't matter anymore. He would never think he'd done anything wrong, and he'd never try to understand why she wasn't wrong either.

 

She pitched the script into the open top of her gym bag.

 

"Look, Derek," she bit her tongue, hard, in case she started to cry. It was easier to hate him than to admit that she hadn't. "I liked you a lot." The coffee was still warm in her hand. "Probably more than you deserved." It wasn't as if she wanted to drink it anymore, but it helped to hold onto something. If she wanted, she could throw it on him. "I don't think there was anything you could do, really. It's just who you are. Or who you think you are," she amended.

 

He made no move to respond. She was glad, in a way.

 

"I thought you could be-" Oh, the power of self-delusion. "I thought you _wanted_ to be something else. And you thought I'm something I'll never be." Almost was. But she wasn't like him, she couldn't go that far. "We were never going to work. Sleep with her, your star, date her, stick with what you know and you'll be fine."

 

Grabbing her bag with her free hand, she stood up.

 

Karen didn't deserve to find out the hard way either. In case she was right, and Derek would move on to his next star, eventually, and she'd just be another walking legend he'd discovered.

 

Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to meet his eyes. And ignore what looked like a little bit of pain around the edges. She'd thought she wanted to hurt him. What she really wanted was to understand. Something else she could never have.

 

"But next time you should tell her first, before you move on."

 

She was already heading for the exit when he stopped her. "Why did you sleep with Dev?"

 

Who was asking, Karen or Derek? It couldn't possibly matter, at this point. It wasn't like her motives weren't obvious, to anyone but him.

 

"Karen had just ditched him, you'd just ditched me. Sometimes it's nice not to be alone."

 

Poor Dev. He'd been cruel to her. But then, she didn't think he'd ever quite accepted that Karen wasn't as perfect as he thought she was (or she thought she was), and that was his problem.

 

It struck her again that she was very good at being heartless, when she didn't mean to be. Sleeping with Dev had given Derek the last piece to turn Karen into whatever it was he saw that made her a star. By his own professional obsession, he should be thanking her, not sulking. She was the only one who had gotten hurt, in the end. Her and Dev.

 

"Now _you're_ lying."

 

She was. Oh, sure, she'd done it to make herself feel better. With Lyle, too. But she'd also wanted to hurt Derek. Another way her life backfired. Since she was the only one who came out of it worse off than before.

 

"What does it matter?" she asked, with a brittle smile. The final question. What had she mattered. What had they mattered?

 

She waited for a moment; it was a rhetorical question, but she was curious to see if he had an answer anyway. At last, he came to some sort of decision, speaking so low she had to lean closer to hear.

 

" _I_ didn't think we were over."

 

There was something in that she didn't want to examine too closely.

 

It was easier to assume the obvious. Ivy and Dev were the villains. Derek and Karen got to be the heroes. A match made in– as good an excuse as any to get what they wanted, in a way not even prudish Karen could object. Hell, it was probably even romantic, if you were hearing about it as a story. Beauty and the Beast, Phoenix from the Ashes, Cinderella in her Castle in the Stars...

 

"Fuck you," she spat. And before he could say anything else, she was gone.


	3. said that you could let it go

A month later her phone rang as she was packing up after rehearsal. It was Dennis, talking in excited bursts. Before he finished, a crowd was call waiting or texting her in a jumble. They all said the same thing.

 

_Derek just fired Karen._

 

Sam was waiting when she got home. She took a quick shower, trying not to care beyond the usual interest in dramatic gossip, with a little bit of satisfaction on top. None of it had anything to do with her, not anymore.

 

"What happened?" She curled damply in her armchair with her glass of wine.

 

"He's been losing it ever since Boston, but we thought it was just Derek being Derek. You know how he can get." Sam winced a little, watching for a reaction. They hadn't talked about the break up. "Today he freaked out. It was bad, even from him."

 

More than once, Derek had driven her close to her breaking point. Once, she _had_ snapped. Not much could be worse than that, nothing that wouldn't result in someone calling 911. There was a line, he bent it all the time and slid over it now and then, but there was still a line. Whatever he'd done now, it probably wasn't that bad, not really. It would just look worse because Karen wasn't Ivy Lynn, she was so innocent and beautiful that any little snip was like kicking a puppy.

 

"One minute it was about missing a cue, the next it was something about costumes and coming back down to Earth, and he fired her." Not much flummoxed Sam, but this had him talking serious. "I know she's the last person you'd feel sorry for, but the way she ran out crying-" He shook his head, a note beyond his usual blanket compassion. "I don't think she even knew what he was screaming about."

 

At least she wasn't the only one he abused. That was her first thought, and that was very callous. Let her get a taste of how the other half lived. That was her second. Sam would understand, he had known her through a lot and for a long time. Still, she pushed those thoughts aside.  
  
"Derek gets that way. It'll blow over and she'll be back Monday morning." By flattery, threat, or whatever it took: Derek always got his way.

 

"I don't think so." He had to be wrong. But the thing was, Sam was a pretty good judge of people. He always had been. He eyed her over the rim of his glass, waiting. Gossip was a guilty pleasure. He'd dispense, but only after you put in a question.

 

She took a sip herself. More of a gulp, really. "Why?"

 

He resettled himself, leaning over the coffee table, strong lines and muscles, even though there was no one to overhear. "Tom's been in prod meetings every night this week. That's where he is now. He won't talk about what's going on, but it's something big."

 

She let that sink in. "It could be anything. Investors, sets, booking a theatre, a million things." With such a compressed timeline, every detail was up in the air every minute, and nothing could fall through the cracks.

 

He nodded, but not believing. "Could be."

 

"She did an amazing job at previews. The reviews said so, everyone-" She winced. "Everyone said so, Derek said so." Not that she'd thought he'd be disappointed, not after he chose his star so definitively. Derek always got his way, and Derek was always right. "Why would they want to change her out now, even for another star?" After all, she'd risen above the star. With the world watching.

 

"She was great in Boston, but you haven't seen her lately. It's not that she's bad, exactly..."

 

"But?"

 

"But I probably shouldn't be telling you this. I'm not supposed to know. Hell, I _don't_ know. But last weekend, Tom went somewhere dressed up."

 

Only a little unusual, unless- He wouldn't. She'd known him through more than a few boyfriends. He moved on, but he didn't cheat. "You think he's seeing someone else?"

 

"What?" Sam's head shot up. The tension of the evening broke when he laughed. "No. Look, I really don't know anything, but I think they did a private show. You know how it goes."

 

She did. Investors wanted to be kept in the loop, the influential and the just-plain-rich-and-famous wanted a peek at something they could be smugly silent about to their friends, pleading the confidentiality clause. It would have been Karen, a pianist, maybe their DiMaggio, for scene work or duets.

 

"And you don't think it went well?"

 

He fell back, lounging as only a dancer could, and spread his hands. "All I know is that today, Derek fired Karen, and Tom and Julia didn't look very surprised."

 

They spent the evening skimming through topics: Sam and Tom, Ivy and Peter (whom she was sort of seeing), fumigation and the pregnancy scandal in Wicked. Then a movie, light and familiar. Perfectly non-demanding, because Ivy couldn't shake one strange, confusing thought:

 

Derek had fired Karen.

 

~*

 

The next morning, her phone woke her up before her alarm clock had the chance.

  
"Hello?"

 

"Ivy, hello. I hope I'm not waking you?"

 

Clearly, from her groggy greeting, she had indeed been woken. But she was Eileen. Ivy woke up fast.

 

"No, I was just getting up. How are you?" An exchange of pleasantries with a major producer at 6.30 in the morning. Theatre had its moments.

 

"I'll cut to the chase. I think you know why I'm calling. These days everyone has their phones out any time something interesting happens, and I hear yesterday was quite interesting."

 

Ivy offered a noncommittal agreement. Gossip did spread fast.

 

"We've lost our Marilyn" Eileen continued briskly. "We need you back."

 

It was what she'd been waiting - _hoping_ – to hear ever since she'd found out. Now that it was happening... She wasn't sure she could do it. Second choice yet again, the stress of living up to Karen's performance, which was sweet and soft, apparently what they wanted and absolutely nothing like her own. The very real possibility that Karen wasn't really gone this time either, and when Karen came back, what was left over but more cutting nothing?

 

Her thinking had manifested as a lengthy pause.

 

"Don't give me an answer now. Think it over – Tom is going to find you later to talk specifics." Eileen's voice wasn't exactly a kind voice. But it was reassuring, in an efficient sort of way.

 

"Okay." She managed to sound like she was not freaking out. "Thank you for considering me"

 

Eileen wasn't kind, but she did do gentle. Professional to personal, a blurry transition at the heart of so many troubles in Bombshell.

 

"Ivy, you were always a spectacular Marilyn. You were my choice. And not just mine." A smile drifted along.

 

Tom had always been behind her. Julia, she thought, had wanted her mostly because she was a safer bet in the last hours. It didn't matter now.

 

"Thank you," she breathed, just before the line went dead.

 

~*

 

It was Sunday, no rehearsal. A long shower cleared her head, a deep clean of her apartment settled her nerves, all the while thinking of all the ways it could end badly.

 

Derek figured into most of them.

 

Tom waited until 9, a more decent hour, inviting her out to brunch. He was cagey about it, in the too-cheery tone only he couldn't see through.

 

"I know, Tom. Eileen called me earlier."

 

"Oh good! So, um, what are you thinking?"

 

She sighed, settling down on her stripped bed. "I think I don't know what to think."

 

"We can work with that." He was going to do his best to convince her. She knew he was.

 

It was too bad he could never protect her when things went south.

 

~*

 

Tom was already in a booth when she got there, a carafe of coffee and glasses of water waiting alongside him.

 

Part way into the meal they were still avoiding skirting the topic, but Ivy finally felt ready to face the real reason they were there.

 

"Did Derek really fire Karen?"

 

Tom put down his fork. "It's a little more complicated than that."

 

"She's pregnant?" Her heart was pounding. She didn't know why she had asked that.

 

He raised an eyebrow. "I don't think so. But we've been talking for a week or so now."

 

That fit. "Since the private show."

 

"Are there no secrets in this town?" he asked the room at large, taken aback.

 

One of the kids at a nearby table decided to answer. "Not if you shout!" General laughter and snickering commenced. In this part of the city, entertainment was a way of life.

 

Secrets were not. "Sam saw you going out, and with what was happening in rehearsals," she shrugged, poking at her eggs, "live in the ensemble long enough, and you learn to put the pieces together."

 

She'd read a book once, she couldn't remember much about it, but there was a cop, who said you could only know your city, own your city, after years pounding the pavement. And no one who hadn't would ever understand. That was the ensemble, she'd felt. Writers, producers, investors, _directors_ ; they owned and ran and shaped the shows, but they'd never really get it, walk the dark alleys, not like Ivy and her friends did. Not even Tom.

 

"Well, since the cat's already out of the bag," he poured syrup until his plate was an amber lake. "We did have a small show, to keep everyone excited about giving us their money."

 

"And she blew it?" That didn't sound like Karen, not when she knew the piece. Unless she'd had another fit and run off.

 

"Not exactly, no." He looked more troubled than anything. "She sounded great, don't get me wrong. There was just something a little... _off_."

 

The same _something_ Karen had that she didn't? It wasn't fair to hit Tom with that one, even though it had punched her in the stomach and sent the contents roiling. It wasn't like he knew.

 

He was too preoccupied to notice her distress. "We didn't think it was a problem, exactly, everyone else was happy, but Derek stormed out in the middle of the USO number, and started calling meetings."

 

Talking about why she should rejoin the production, fine. But these were details she shouldn't know, edging into facts beyond the whispered gossip. She watched the ketchup, biting her lip.

 

"I wouldn't be saying this if you weren't you. If we weren't asking what we are. But Eileen thought you needed to know."

 

"Why?"

 

"So you'd know we're serious. If you come back, you're with us to Broadway. Unless," he smiled teasingly into the silence, trying to lighten the mood. "Unless you go off to become a big TV star, and abandon us."

 

As if she ever would. But her biggest fear was still her biggest fear. "What if Derek brings her back?"

 

This was a question he had been anticipating. "First off, we don't think he'll try. I haven't been to as many rehearsals lately, so I haven't seen it myself, but the way he's been talking all week, this isn't a recent thing."

 

She wondered if that thing was Karen sleeping with him... Or _not_ sleeping with him. Tom might not even know, the ensemble probably would, but she still didn't want to ask. Maybe this was Derek, listening to her final advice. Only he got tired of his star too fast and cast it all off? That didn't sound like Derek.

 

Maybe it was Karen, finally seeing Derek for who he was, and dumping _him_. That sounded like Karen. Overreacting did sound a lot like Derek.

 

As reassurances went, it wasn't very good.

 

Tom lay a hand on hers, until she looked up. "Second, he can't. Now that were officially a go, Eileen holds all the contracts, and I think Boston was the last straw. She's sick of letting Derek walk all over her. Not to mention excited about having you back, of course," he squeezed her fingers. "Everyone is."

 

They would hardly say otherwise.

 

She didn't want to ask this either, but she had to. "Even Derek?" she whispered.

 

"Especially Derek," he replied firmly. "As soon as he stopped telling us why Karen needed to go, he was pushing to bring you back." He dropped his fork with a splatter at her frown. "It wasn't a hard sell. We were just surprised, after Boston, and what happened there. With him."

 

Apparently, she was now the whim of the day. He'd always gone back and forth, playing them off one another.

 

"Why did he want _me_? There's time, anyone could learn it."

 

Tom's gleeful smile spread slowly. "You should have been there." Glee on Tom was actually very entertaining, even under the circumstances. "We made him eat so much crow. I've never seen him just sit there and take it like that – it's part of why I know he's serious."

 

She'd seen Derek like that. A few times. But particularly-

 

"He said– a lot of things, but mostly he kept going back to the USO number we did at Lyle's birthday party, you remember? He said everyone in the room was drawn in, and having fun," he paused, recalling. "And that they felt safe and close and that was what Marilyn was about, and what a show should be about."

 

She was surprised he'd had time to watch, between flirting sessions. But it had been a great night. She'd felt it. They all had. Even Derek had said so, but she hadn't thought he really meant it. So much of the time, she'd wondered if he ever meant anything at all.

  
"That was one night."

  
Tom blinked rapidly.

 

She got it. "Karen didn't."

 

He nodded.  
  
If she had done anything better than Karen in Derek's eyes, that was something. She still craved his approval. She wished she didn't. All she wanted was to be first, for once. And to get to stay there. More than anything, she wanted her chance to be a star, for someone to believe in her enough to fight for her, and win.

 

"If I come back," she loved Marilyn, she was trying to move on but she knew in her heart it could only be Marilyn. "Wait, is Karen back in the ensemble?"

 

His hair tossed in vigorous negation. "Not this time. Not even if she wanted to."

 

"If I do..." There was only ever going to be one answer. Except for one thing that might make it impossible. "If I do, do I have to talk to Derek? I don't mean in rehearsal," she clarified. "I know he's the Director. But you know we were..." It wasn't discretion that made her trail off. She'd never actually known what they were, what she should call it.

 

"You don't have to talk to him." Tom's voice was low.

 

She'd never talked to him about her relationship with Derek, not their personal one. But he had to know. Everyone knew. And Sam would have told him things.

 

"Eileen's already warned him not to speak to you until you've made up your mind."

 

It seemed _everyone_ knew _everything_ about her life.

 

"And if you say yes, he can't talk to you outside rehearsal, or about anything other than the show. She threatened to strangle him, in her deadly voice." Tom thrust a fork at an imaginary Derek. "And if he does, tell him to fuck off. He can't do anything to you."

 

Nice in theory. Except she kept remembering that last conversation they'd had. How he'd sat down, when they didn't have anything to talk about. How she couldn't quite convince herself, even in the moment, that it was all about Karen. If he started it again – not that he would, not after how she'd left – but if he did, she wasn't sure she'd be able to walk away.

 

It made her chest flutter, fear and pain and a little bit excited. It was a risk she had to take. It was for Marilyn. She'd done scarier things for her dreams.

 

"Yes."

 

"Yes?"

 

"Yes, I want Marilyn. I want to come back to the show."

 

Saying it made it real.

 

The rest of brunch was fun - the weight of indecision lifted - almost giddy, and full of sugar when Tom's syrup lake lapped over the insufficient lip of his plate. She left with laundry to do, but also with a plan:

 

Today: Call Candy From Strangers and quit.

 

Monday: Meeting with Eileen to sign paperwork.

 

Tuesday: Dinner with Tom and Sam. Fail to call Mother until Bombshell was literally opening on Broadway.

  
Wednesday: _Rehearsal_.

 


	4. you treat me like a stranger

On Wednesday she got to the studio building early, and spent 20 minutes hiding around the corner. It wasn't about making a grand entrance, she was scared to death of walking in to find herself alone with Derek.

 

Of course she would have to see him, talk to him; she just wanted there to be people around.

 

With seven minutes to spare she lagged behind a chatting group. She really had missed everyone, had known many of them much longer than a single show, and was a happy little nucleus to a rotating cloud of hugs and congratulations until a loud "Places Please" dispersed them throughout the room.

 

The morning was light, crawling through some of the choreography she already knew, and showing her the changes. Dancers were paid to learn and remember, but it still felt nice when she only missed a few steps, and finished Let's Be Bad near perfectly on the first full run-through.

 

That had always been one of her stronger numbers, and one of Karen's weaker ones. An obvious ploy to ease her back into the role and make her feel comfortable, but it was working. She wondered who had set the schedule. Linda, she figured, by the encouraging smiles.

 

When they called lunch, she didn't want to stop. She could relearn the show in a day, and she wanted to prove it. Marilyn had been her dream. Now that she had her back she didn't want to let her go, not even for an hour. The rehearsal room felt like home, plywood shapes and doppelgangers working on the other side of the mirror. Stench of sweat and white noise whispers. Tom and Sam were forced to tug her out the door, even though she'd already agreed to a light lunch. Light all around; salads and banter.

 

Except for one minute, when Tom was getting another bottle of water, and Sam leaned over to ask what he had clearly been instructed to not ask. "How's Derek?"

 

"Fine," she answered, surprised.

 

She was. He was. She hadn't even noticed him much. All morning he'd been at his table, occasionally offering broad notes or calling a new segment while Josh and the other dancers did the real work. She'd looked his way a few times, to see if he approved, but he was never looking back.

 

"You'll let us know if he-"

 

She smiled reassuringly, as Tom sat back down.

 

She could do this. She was even starting to miss his fits. At least it showed he cared about her performance. Oh well, enjoy the peace while it lasted.

 

The ensemble had mostly been dismissed for the afternoon, so they could run lines with the new DiMaggio. The majority of the pages were new to her, or at least substantially changed – Julia never did have time or energy for more than a first pass at the book before previews went up. They started in chairs, then standing a few feet apart, using only the most basic blocking as they built a rapport.

 

Derek was more obviously present, in the relatively empty space. She had to push past her self-consciousness, and stiffen her neck to prevent herself from peeking over for his reaction.

 

Not that she needed his approval. But she still craved it.

 

After a while he stood up, gently moving them around the space instead of interrupting with verbal commands. She felt Tom's eyes on them, even more than the light pressure of Derek's fingers on her arm and back. That was novel in and of itself: he'd never touched her before – not in rehearsal.

 

There were things she was supposed to be feeling, that Tom thought she was feeling, and maybe everyone else thought so too. Maybe she was. She was hurt and angry that Karen had been handed the role after weeks of making her life hell. More like devastated and pissed, especially after Derek had been the one to adorn a platter with praise and support and spoon feed it to her. And it wasn't exactly a picnic finding out he was sleeping with Rebecca. Yet somehow found the time to finally tell his ostensible girlfriend she wasn't good enough, only to mysteriously change his mind.

 

Those were the things which had already happened. Now she had more to prove than ever, because she wasn't just a second choice, but a castoff. If she wasn't better than perfect, she was a failure.

 

She did feel all that, acutely. Yet still, all she wanted, in the moment, was to work. Tom's stare and Derek's fingertips were unsettling, but when she concentrated on her line delivery, and mapped DiMaggio onto the face in front of her, she could forget they were even there.

 

It was everything she'd ever wanted. And no one could take it from her this time, except herself. She'd figured that one out during her self-inflicted pariah days in Candy From Strangers. And Eileen had promised, her agent had approved the contract, and there were even hints regarding some of the investors being very curious to see what she did with it.

 

She felt safe enough, from herself and from the world, to focus, and take risks. She'd always been good, maybe better than good. Now she was shooting for great, and maybe better than great. Hoping that somewhere along the way she'd become a star. Because that was what they were entrusting her to do.

 

~*

 

Thursday was a lot like Wednesday, only they started in on choreography for one of the songs she’d never done.  Again, Josh was in charge, Derek offering broad commands and periodically calling his assistant choreographer back for a powwow.

 

It was holding her back, and that was irritating.  Derek was getting irritated too; she could tell when he slumped lower in his chair, and stopped taking notes.  But she couldn’t make the changes if he didn’t tell her what he wanted.  He wasn’t even telling her what he  _ didn’t _ want.

 

At least he was watching her today.

 

Peter, her kind-of boyfriend, was meeting her for lunch, so she tried to shake her frustrations away.

 

“Perfect!” she replied brightly, when he asked how things were going. He was pretty perceptive, quirking an eyebrow but choosing to drop the matter in favour of the gallery opening they were going to that weekend. She liked that about him. She also found it annoying.

 

After lunch Derek was even crankier. His chats with Josh were becoming more energetic, and despite her persisting fear that he was regretting bringing her back, she suspected she wasn't the whole problem. He wasn't just ignoring  _ her; _ he hadn't been yelling, or even talking sharply, to  _ any _ of them.

 

The ensemble was already whispering speculation. The most popular theories were either an actual stroke, some sort of restraining order, or he'd finally been put on heavy medication.

 

Privately, Ivy knew he had to have a plan in mind, she just didn't know what it was.

 

Near the end of the day they were doing one last run-through of the first half of Dig Deep. Despite religious trips to the gym, dance classes, and of course her work on Candy, she was getting tired. Sam and Dennis had to lower her early when she couldn't keep her arms straight. She tripped, a little stumble when making a turn. Nothing too bad, but Derek should have been all over every single one.

 

He wasn't. She didn't have time to look closer.

 

When Linda called the day she grabbed her water, dawdling by the windows. If they couldn't work together the show would suffer, and a great Director was much more important than a nobody actress. Even Eileen would have to agree to let her go. And Derek wasn't great at proactive problem solving; if he was snubbing her now, he might never stop on his own.

 

She needed the part, and she needed the show to be as good as it could possibly be. The awkwardness of being exes shouldn't even be a factor, if that's what it was. It wasn't like he'd had any trouble yelling at her when they  _ were _ together.

 

Five feet away and she was just about to speak when Derek looked up from his laptop. It was the first real eye contact they'd had in weeks, and it threw her off, how neutral he was. He cared about  _ everything _ related to the show. Fanatically so. What was she, a turnip? No point in trying? Anything is better than nothing when his choice didn't work out? Playing the stick against a carrot to groom Karen for a bigger and better role, something crafted for her alone?

 

She started again anyway, taking a step closer and getting out “Why are you-” before Tom swooped in and whisked her away, talking loudly about a new transition he was working on.

 

When she looked back, Derek was gone.

 

Glancing in the same direction, Tom lowered his voice to a normal level. “Ivy-”

 

“What was that about?”

 

“He can't talk to you outside rehearsal.” He tapped his watch.

 

Tom was sweet, but sweet could be cloying. Derek  _ wasn't _ talking to her, and that was the problem. She pushed down the frustration. Tom did it out of love.

 

~*

 

Friday was under-scheduled as well, re-orienting her with the last finished songs in the morning, and a little work on a new song that afternoon. By Monday she'd be off book, and the real work could begin.

 

Josh was out for the day, and Derek gave dry direction, segment by segment. He let her catch his eye a few times, when they were stopped, and it finally struck her, as he narrated another change, that he hadn't used her name, not once. Forget "Ivy" or "Miss Lynn," he hadn't addressed her as "Marilyn" or "Miss Monroe" either. Oh, he'd use the name to refer to her when speaking to someone else, but never to her face.

 

Brandon, DiMaggio was nice enough, though nowhere near as extroverted as Michael. She focused on connecting, keeping extra tension in her arms to force him to pull against her, and winking at inappropriate moments to make him smile, instead of staring over her head. She was a lot shorter than Karen.

 

She let it go when Derek told "DiMaggio" to "steady her when she stands up" on the couch.

 

Right before lunch they squeezed in half an hour with the new song. Tom had invited her over the night before, and they'd run through it a few times. A riff on "Diamonds Are a Girl's Best Friend," it was Marilyn performing the song: close enough to keep the association, while different enough to feel entirely new and revealing. A bit like Let's Be Bad.

 

She loved it. And not just because it gave her – and Bombshell – a much needed chance to be a little sassy and funny, which was one of her strengths.

 

Before they started on choreography they sang it through with the ensemble a few times, nailing down the rhythm and the blending. Something they should have done in the afternoon, but there was something else she'd done with Tom, and he'd wanted to see the response before heading out for another meeting.

 

He must have told Linda too, because while technically it was lunch, she stayed quiet when Tom winked and called her out front by the piano for a final run.

 

She hit all the notes, but tickled and toyed, creating an effect of Marilyn without copying her. After all, Marilyn had been much more than her roles, and "the woman behind" was who they were looking for. Marilyn had always been hampered by being typecast as a jaded chorus girl on the make, or similar, but really she was incredible at comedy. Ivy gave some of that back.

 

It would run counter to the blocking, she knew, when she added moments and gestures layering secret meanings as she pretended to reveal a gartered thigh or winked over an invisible ring. They weren't just double entendres in the typical sense; they let the audience in on the joke of how Marilyn herself was well aware of the role she played.

 

Most of them were her ideas, though Tom had encouraged her, tossing his own suggestions out and refining a few of hers. She was fairly sure this was a disagreement he'd been having with Derek, and was innocently using her and her secure new status to gain the upper hand. If that was so, she was happy to be used. This way was better.

 

Blowing diamond dust from her hand, she threw one last coquettish wink over her shoulder in time with the last note. Bobbing a curtsey and nervous smile to gratifying applause and catcalls, she scanned for Tom. He was locked into a staring contest with Derek.

 

Tom was clapping hard. Derek was not.

 

After lunch they were supposed to work on the choreography for the Diamond number, but Derek called for Dig Deep again. The new ending wasn't really fleshed out yet, which is why it was on the books for Monday, when he would use the day to move them around like toy soldiers on a battlefield while they exercised their erasers more than their bodies.

 

They ran through the opening again and again, until Josh gave a thumbs up and Derek stopped flipping pages long enough to announce the lift needed to go in the second half, and they needed to start from the other side of the stage.

 

Theirs was not to question why.

 

It wasn't unusual for a lead to offer suggestions or opinions. Not like Rebecca did: she was a Star and made Demands. But Ivy had helped him before, she knew how his mind worked, and he'd always at least listened to her. More than that, she still wanted to feel like she really did have the part, not just on paper, and it was hers to put her stamp on.

 

Plus Tom was gone, and no one else would stop her.

 

She tested the waters, asking if he wanted her to fall off the risers, or jump a little so she'd land higher, but flat on the waiting arms.

 

The effect was immediate. Everyone had been feeling the undercurrent of tension, waiting for it to crack. Heavy silence fell as every head, including the crews', whipped over to Derek. He didn't seem to notice, though there were a few breathless beats before he flicked another page and blandly concluded they would "try it both ways."

 

It wasn't exactly directed _to_ her, but he'd proven he'd _heard_ her. It was a start. She had a plan herself, and the worst that could happen this time would leave him trying to fire her. A situation which, she'd already concluded, would happen anyway if he kept ignoring her.

 

An hour later they were working a transition. A line of guys were spinning her across to stage right, one to the next, leaving her about three seconds to run back to the dressing room set at stage left.

 

Derek was arguing with Eileen – she hadn't seen Eileen come in – about moving the set upstage center and pushing it downstage, scooping her up. Ivy knew why he was resisting: he wanted the clean distinction of spaces, and a smooth journey from one side to the other.

 

"Excuse me?" Ivy broke in.

 

They stopped.

 

"What if half of them spun me this way, and the other half spun me back so I'd end up here?" Pacing it in her head, she stood about ten feet from where she was meant to end up. Much better than thirty.

  
"Why don't you show us," Eileen said gently, after a critical study of Derek's posture.

 

Ivy conferred with Josh and the dancers for a couple minutes. The eight of them had stood in one line, but they moved every other one back a pace. She could take a large step while twirling as quickly as a small one, and when the music began again she spun down the front line, before Dennis, at the end, tossed her at the back row to spin back the other way. When the front row crouched down, there was even the added benefit of them looking like they were peeking up her skirt.

 

She was a little late into position, but she knew it could work once they tweaked spacing and timing.

 

They kept their little tableau until Derek turned to a wide-eyed Linda, "did you get that?" and moved them on.

 

Ivy was feeling rather proud of herself. Derek was paying attention to her, and approving. He did still respect her. And it wasn't just that. Her chest was tight with the blinding excitement of finally, finally believing that no matter what had happened before, this was her role, and she would still exist within it no matter how many actresses would take the part after her.

 

She felt even better when she caught Eileen winking at her, above a strange little smile.

 

If Derek could talk to her, and take her seriously, and if she could talk to him, and know that he was behind her, then they could be okay. Granted, he was currently doing his bit while pretending he was not, but then she was doubting him so they were about even.

 

There was just one thing that could ruin her new buzz.

 

Eileen had left halfway through the afternoon, which she was grateful for. This would be hard enough with the cast and crew watching. She had pride, and a reputation, and didn't need a producer thinking she was contrary on top of it all.

 

The ending was tricky anyway, with a fast flip off a riser only partially softened by a strong arm before she needed to land cleanly and immediately fall back, facing the audience.

 

After a few near misses "Again," "Again," "Faster please. Again," the clock was running out and she knew she had it but landed with her toe instead of her heel, falling ungracefully yet again into the quick hands of the ensemble.

 

"If they caught me and flipped me off the riser, it would be easier." Winded, she almost asked, almost whined. For a second there, she'd been falling harder than she'd anticipated.

 

Set back on her feet, she automatically took a few steps to make sure she was okay, watching the floor to avoid the confused eyes of the ensemble - she never gave up on _anything_ , - and the judgment from everyone else. _I can't do it_ didn't make for a star. Not a real one. Not the one she wanted to be.

 

Especially not when she knew she _could_ do it.

 

Derek was staring hard at her, weighing her in his mind. She glared right back, challenging, everything else in the room fading into the background.

 

It was about to be too much, her ears were burning under the flush of exercise when he broke away, instructing her shoes, and presumably everyone else, to "run it like that."

  
Her stomach queased as they flipped her around, less flashy, less technical, a mediocre ending. He'd let her break the show. Probably he'd fix it later, and this was only for an hour, but he'd let her break it anyway.

  
Worse, she'd tried to do it, even though she knew she could figure it out, and would have worked all weekend, and longer, to pull it off. Yet she'd done it, playing a power game, and even though she'd won, she'd lost. Again. She hadn't believed he'd take a _bad_ suggestion, or let her be weaker than she was. Not really.

 

Because she knew she could do it, and she _knew_ that he knew it too.


	5. hung up on somebody that you used to know

After rehearsal she'd been so grouchy she collected rain-checks for all the drink offers and spent the evening with Monkey Business instead. Never, not from the first, had she expected it to be easy.

 

She hadn't expected it to be this hard.

 

For a few days she'd believed the role was hers, that there was no one left in the wings waiting- well, there were always people waiting for you to screw up so they could step in, that was Broadway. What she'd believed was that they could start over, everyone behind her, and Derek wouldn't be cutting away every few runs to imagine what he would do with Karen in the role.

 

Now she was back in a nightmare. Broadway was a dream. This was supposed to be all the work in between. Yet here she was, with a Director who could barely look at her, wouldn't direct her, and even if Karen had lost her luster for him, he was either bored with Bombshell or disappointed in her, or worse, couldn't see her as Ivy Lynn, leading lady, but only as Ivy, broken ex-bed partner and all around failure.

 

Finally shake one monkey off your back, to find your own past haunting your steps. There wasn't much she could do, either. What she thought she knew about him had come up wrong, and she didn't know where they stood.

 

She couldn't ask.

 

Around midnight she was wiping moisturizer on her skin. It was early, by theatre standards, but she was beat and going to bed earlier left her more time to warm up before morning rehearsal.

 

It was a bit too early for shows to have let out, but she still didn't think much of it when someone knocked on her door.

 

“I never slept with Karen” was an abrupt and unconventional greeting. She didn't know what to do with it.

 

Derek stepped into the doorway, less like he was trying to come  in , and more like he was preventing her from shutting him  out . There wasn't much space between them, but he managed to look at the floor rather than at her.

 

It had taken a while, but eventually she'd believed that he hadn't given her the role in the first place because she'd slept with him. He didn't do that sort of thing, favours like that. Not when they impacted the show.

 

Now she was wondering, listening to him breath, if she'd  _ lost _ the role because she'd slept with him.

 

Karen, even Rebecca, got the role first.

 

“Okay,” she wavered.

 

It wasn't like it did her any good anyway. Karen or no, he never denied sleeping with Rebecca. And he'd looked at her like the stage made her glow, even though she could barely-

 

If they hadn't slept together first, one of the first times they'd met, maybe he could have seen  _ her _ as Marilyn, had his great epiphany with  _ her _ , and none of this would have happened. Or maybe it was all an excuse in her head, and he had given her the role because he saw something in her, at first. Only he saw more in Karen.

 

He loomed very well, a step closer. Without heels, she was level with his chest.

 

She froze when he dropped his head, exhaling over her neck, warmth a stark contrast to the cooler air. She shivered.

 

“What do you want from me?” he whispered, so soft the words spread without gravel.

 

Moments like this, with him, she wondered if maybe she wasn't the only one who was confused. But Derek always knew what he wanted, what he was doing, even if he changed his mind later. In the end, all she had were wants, never quite able to make them happen. But she knew she wasn't the only one who put the show first.

 

One thing show business had taught her was how to work through nerves. He was close enough to kiss her, grab her, his body was still familiar and she still understood  _ that.  _ Fight was running up her spine while flight was running down, and she didn't even know if she wanted to pull him to the bed or shove him out the door and hide. She forced herself to slow down, waited until she could speak evenly.

 

“I want you to direct me. No more games. I take this seriously, and I thought you did too.”

 

He took a few deep breaths, and she was glad she'd just washed her hair, and didn't smell like sweat.

 

“If you can't do something, we have to change it.” His voice was closer to normal, though low, barely enough to carry.

 

Pride, more than anything, took her a step back, glaring. She wasn't handicapped; she could do anything they asked her to do. If she couldn't, she'd learn.

 

“Cut the bullshit, Derek.” Her tone wasn't very nice, and he glanced up in surprise. “You know I could have done it.”

 

Was this what he did with Karen? What she wanted, needed? Rebecca had been needy too. She hadn't belonged. Derek still gave her anything. Everything.

 

“You said you couldn't,” was his overly reasonable counter.

 

H e thought so little of her, he was putting her in their category. Or worse, he thought so little of her that he thought she  _ wanted _ to be lumped in with them. That she couldn't do it on her own. He thought she couldn't. They'd spent hundreds of hours together and he didn't know her at all.

 

Arguments in hallways were frowned upon.

 

Pulling him out of the way with a hand fisted in his shirt, moving him too easily given their respective sizes, she shut the door. Either because she was properly pissed at him for the first time since Boston, or just because he never looked threatening in her tiny apartment, she felt like they were-

 

Like they were immediate, maybe. There had been so much space between them even in rehearsals, and now there wasn't.

 

“Why am I here? If it's just to play bench warmer, I've wasted enough time with you already.” She'd meant  _ wasted enough time with the show _ . It didn't occur to her that she might also have meant something else until he thumped back against the wood, jaw clenched.

 

Oh well, she did mean that too.

 

She was prepared for anger, or at least rising irritation to match hers, but he swallowed it, more tired than anything, the inverse of how he was in the studio.

 

“I thought I was right. With Karen.”

 

“And?” she prompted.

 

He dropped his head back. “I wasn't.”

 

She could read the rising annoyance now in the line of his jaw. He never liked explaining himself. Not if he was pushed. She wished she didn't know that. But she did, and so she waited, propping a shoulder against the the divider wall and crossing her arms.

 

A minute or forever later he leveraged up and walked past her to sit on the end of her bed. Another forever and he informed the floor, in apathetic monotone: “She was fantastic, in Boston.”

 

_ She _ could have been fantastic, too.

 

He barely paused. “And then she wasn't.”

 

Someone would have told her if that was really true. There was no better gossip than informing the supplanted of the supplantee's fall from grace. See the deluge when Karen was fired.

 

His voice took on a wistful sheen. “We never rehearsed with her, much.”

 

That was something else that pissed her off: Karen barely got by in the ensemble. She could learn something if she wanted to, but needed a crowd of hand-holding to learn and relearn and keep the final bits and pieces straight.

 

“Theatre is nothing _but_ rehearsals,” she snapped. If she were in the mood to be charitable, Karen might do a decent job taking over a role from someone else.

 

Like when she took over Marilyn.

 

He was nodding, but went on like he was reading from a script. “I couldn't baby her every step of the way. She couldn't do it.” He caught her in the very corner of his eye. “You can.”

 

She'd rather have IT than mere professional hardiness. Which she wasn't even getting to use.

 

She clipped her words. “And what is 'it,' Derek, that I can do and she can't?” It wasn't something she wanted to fight over, she just needed to know if if if. If she was just the easier, albeit less glamorous option. If 'it' was something she could be proud of, or something out of her control. If it was her at all, or anyone vaguely like her would do just as well. It wasn't something you could ask. He was nothing but her Director, but he was sitting in her apartment and this conversation would never leave the room. He wouldn't. She wouldn't. She needed to know where she stood, when everything was already upside down.

 

Tom said it had been the special performance. But one room was nothing like a stage, with lights and people and life and a full production waiting for their cue.

 

He was silent. She watched. She just needed one thing. One thing that meant he wanted her.

 

"She glows," he finally came up with. "People are drawn to her, they watch her, like a goddess, beyond reach. The listen to her under a spell."

 

Karen was too perfect for the dirt of the stage? Too good even for poor, broken, legendary Marilyn. Derek always had tried to turn one into the other, and in the end he did it the wrong way around. Her hand was on the doorknob when he continued.

 

"They love her."

 

Like hell she was going to keep listening to a rapture from the Altar of Karen. "Get out." She flung the door open so fast it hurt when it hit her hand.

  
Almost as fast he was on his feet. "Dammit Ivy." His voice was hard, sharp. The door slammed back into the frame.

 

Derek was loud, and sometimes mean, but he was never violent. It scared her, a little, when he blocked her path, herding her against the wall like she was prey.

 

Before, she'd wanted him to look at her. Now she wanted him to look away. He was pinning her down without touching her, anger or something like it simmering, running tense through his muscles.

 

She hated that she couldn't take a full breath. "Derek." She hated the fear that spiked the whisper.

 

"She's never anyone but her pretty little self. No one can touch her," he hissed. "They applaud. They love her."

 

She tried to slip sideways but he blocked her with an arm, hollow thump on thin wall.

 

" _She_ is the story."

 

She pushed futilely at his chest and he leaned his weight forward, his heartbeat almost audible now that she could feel it. It had not escaped her attention that he could do anything to her, and she couldn't stop him. She was also very aware of the fact that even in the moment, she didn't really believe he would.

 

"Derek," she tried, louder.

 

"They were all impressed. By her. By her performance. That was it."

 

And he didn't like that, clearly, and at odds with everything he'd ever said before. He had fits, sometimes, ones no one understood. It made him a lot of things: a good director, feared and hated, respected. He liked it that way. She liked it when she understood the why. She didn't like it when he expected her to understand his every passing fancy.

 

"Stop. Derek. Please." Through his shirt, he was hot.

 

One of them was trembling, probably her, while he looked at her like he'd forgotten she was there. Eyes softening tension bleeding breath deepening and stumbling as his head tipped against the wall by her ear.

 

She left her hand where it was, preventing him from getting closer, or maybe making sure he wouldn't leave.

 

"She's a pretty thing. She's Marilyn wrapped up in her entourage, and she doesn't want to leave." The words were defeated, tired and lost. This wasn't a Derek she knew either, but it was closer.

 

"What am I?" she whispered, awaiting judgment.

 

"I need you," like it hurt. Quickly, before she could respond: "The show needs you. You took," he swallowed, "them with you. You made them have fun. You make them feel." The last breathed out, as if not meant for her ears.

 

As good a reason as any, she supposed. At least it was something she knew she could do, something the theatre wanted to do.  
  
It was leftover adrenaline, why she still couldn't breathe right.

 

His first question still echoed in her mind.  _What do you want from me?_

 

"So help me."

 

He took a sharp breath, pressing in a fraction, his head tilting farther towards her. Asking permission. They'd done this enough, she knew what it was. It wasn't like she hadn't thought about it. That with Karen gone and her snug in the role, they could go back...

 

They hadn't worked before. They wouldn't work now. They'd been together for a while, but there would always be another Karen. Living as a placeholder until something better came along wasn't enough, she wanted something better, for once.

 

She turned away. "Direct me." She let her hand drop away.

 

He pushed off the wall slowly, nodding, not looking at her as he let himself out. The lock clicked shut with a tiny scrape.

 

There was silence. The calm after the storm.

 

Crawling into bed, she wrapped herself around a pillow and tried to not think. She had the part, and all she could do was show up Monday and do her job. The best she could. Anything else was beyond her control.

 

It wasn't cold but she shivered, cocooned in her blanket. Monday would prove if he could do it. This had been the best confrontation she could expect, if not the best scene she had dreamed.

 

Life was always messier, more painful, less satisfying than fantasy. There weren't any RomCom reveals, where it had all been a misunderstanding, the guy gets the girl and the girl gets the guy. Derek really had seen everything in Karen, and still saw it. He just needed less than she was. Or he wasn't enough for her. Even for Karen, he couldn't soften that far, not for that long. That was something. He hadn't changed for  _her_ either.

 

And Derek still wanted her, Ivy Lynn. That was one bright spot which could have faded with all the others. Maybe he expected to have her back, she knew his reputation, his sociopathic tendencies. She'd seen them. She'd rarely dreamed about letting him back into her bed, but had run though scenarios where she could dramatically point out all the ways he'd done nothing but use her before shoving him away and stalking off with a Marilyn swing to her hips.

 

Or let him kiss her, once, just enough to pretend she'd forgotten before slipping away and smirking a "goodbye" they'd never had. Leave him wanting. They never  _had_ had a proper goodbye, just a series of half-avoidances.

 

He was supposed to beg, to presume, to offer lame excuses and deny that anyone else had ever meant anything to him.

 

He wasn't supposed to say all the wrong things, sing the praises of the woman she hated most, yell at her and wrap around her as if he'd finally lost control, scare her, send her head spinning heart tripping aching wondering what would have happened if...

 

If she hadn't turned away. If he'd wanted her enough to ask more than once. To fight for her, no one fought for her, even if it was only against her bitter half.

 

She wasn't supposed to want him, after everything.

 

And yet, she did. A little. In the moment he went from hard to soft. Those moments were theirs.

 

She fell asleep wondering how many other women believed exactly the same thing.


	6. I guess that I don't need that though

Monday he yelled. At everyone.

 

There were eyerolls and mutterings, it had been too good to last. Derek was back off meds, or his dominant personality was back in control. Those were the most popular opinions. Ivy didn't say anything. She smiled through the brash commands “Again,” “ _ F _ _ ocus.  _ Again” and on the third try she kept her hips high and stuck the landing, tipping neatly back into waiting arms.

 

Derek gave her the tiniest hint of a grin before moving them on.

 

The whole week was harder, it was always going to be. It was mostly choreography she barely knew, started and stopped without breaks to orient her before the music started back up or Josh clapped out the beats. The ensemble had been there every step of the way, and when her steps faltered she could see her missed positions and the line of boredom as they reset again. And again.

 

It wasn't that she was unreasonably slow, or a trainwreck. She just wasn't as fast or as perfect as she wanted to be.

 

“For God's sake Ivy, you're not waiting for a bus.” Derek's shout bounced throughout the room and Ivy froze. It was the first time he'd been properly derisive, and while she'd been waiting for it, she hadn't been ready for it.

 

He was as still as she was, within the usual hubub, pen poised over a page.

 

She raised her eyebrows innocently, and walked quietly back to her mark. The next run, she moved faster.

 

By Friday she was doing better, nights of mentally running through her notes paying off, her body piecing together combinations into a fluid whole. She wasn't ready to carry the production, but she was getting there, and "there" was months away.

 

She cashed in her rainchecks when Linda called the day.

 

They went to their favourite bar, her and Sam, Bobby, Jessica and Dennis, and crowded around a table meant for two.

 

“Can you believe Derek?” Jessica asked with the second round.

 

“No!” Bobby was scanning the crowd. “But did anyone really think he'd changed?” He waved to someone like he was landing a plane.

 

Ivy took a sip from her first mug. Lately, she hadn't been holding her alcohol too well. “He wasn't that different last week.”

 

The table played eyeball ping-pong before resting on her self-conscious confusion.

 

“It wasn't just last week,” Dennis whispered by her ear.

 

Sam took over. “He's been really nice with Karen, ever since-”

 

“Since she got Understudy, remember?”

 

“Not at first.”

 

“But after that.”

 

They bickered over the details. Ivy drank.

 

“Until he cracked.”

 

“You could tell he was going to blow.”

 

“Karen couldn't.”

 

“Would you?”

 

Ivy sliced into her second drink, watching Sam manage to avoid her until she felt sufficiently brave to lean into his personal space with:

 

“You told me he was making her life _hell_.”

 

“I said we thought he was going crazy. And Darth Derek being nice?” Sam had a point. “It's not like you should worry about it, whatever it was didn't last. You have the part, remember?” Another fair point.

 

It still wasn't fair. Derek had been nice to her and she'd hated it, but that was because they couldn't get anything done. She'd seen the changes, knew what the show had looked like in Boston. Derek had been able to work with Karen, and do it nicely. No matter what he said. She wondered what other things he'd done with Karen, nicely and easily and worshiping her all the while.

 

When she finished her drink, she stole Dennis'.

 

A night out with her friends, the lead in a new musical, and a sale at TJ Maxx all weekend. There was everything to celebrate.

 

“Have you heard about Karen?”

 

“No, what?”

 

“You won't believe.”

 

“Ivy, you'll love this. She won't be anywhere  _ near _ Bombshell until it goes up.” Bobby glanced gleefully up from his phone, ignoring a swat from Jessica, who was leaning over his shoulder.

 

That was promising. Especially if it was because Iowa was giving up and finally going back to her adoring cornfields.

 

“She got Mamma Mia! Standby for Sophie, the West End production. She's leaving this weekend.”

 

“That soon?”

 

“Think that's why she left Bombshell?”

 

“For a standby?”

 

“Maybe Derek was jealous.”

 

“Arthur McCluster saw her in Boston. Apparently he scooped her up when he heard she was free.”

 

Texts were rolling in. There was a fine line between pride, excitement, and bragging. “Humblebragging,” a blog she'd read had labeled it.

 

Even getting fired only turned into an amazing opportunity for  _ her _ . Standby was nothing on the lead, but it was nothing to sneeze at: a gateway to the top, especially when someone had their eye on you.

 

Ivy bought the next round.

 

~*

 

A good bit of Saturday was lost to a bad hangover. Forget the beer, there had been shots hiding in there somewhere. Probably in the beer. Her teeth hurt. Who the hell decided it was a good idea to drop an unrestrained shot glass into an innocent-looking pint?

 

But by Monday she had three new dresses, a new pair of killer heels, and life was looking up. So Karen had a great new job, one thousands of girls would kill for. One she hadn't worked for. So what if she was jealous? Karen was gone, Marilyn was hers, and she couldn't keep worrying about things she had no control over. She always said that, she always worried, but she’d read a book during her down period that had her resolved to mean it. This was her fresh start.

 

By Thursday she'd placed 10,000 breaths, danced 1,000 ways, missed 100 notes and received maybe 10 signs of approval. A good week so far.

 

The afternoon was for scene work. They'd been snagging an hour here and an hour there, a couple of working lunches or early mornings. They'd covered most of it, and now it was time to wrestle with the more emotional scenes.

 

Ivy cried and ran away, ran back to cry and run, until DiMaggio was yelling, over and over, each pulling out what exactly they were feeling at every moment.

 

Derek always seemed to know what it was. Funny, since his own emotional range was vastly smaller than normal. But he let them figure it out on their own, with nudges and suggestions and only the periodic smack of his hand on the tabletop. A rare hour of patience, before blocking would hold them to perfection once again.

 

The last scene they turned to was one she knew, relatively unchanged from the start.  Probably why it had been tacked on to the end of the schedule; the emotional drive was from her, DiMaggio playing part of the audience.

 

Derek had approved of her reading the very first time. Her fingernail engraved the pages. He'd liked it a lot, she'd thought, until she watched him watch Karen play it. Ivy hadn't thought Karen did nearly as well. Though certain inflections were suspiciously familiar.

 

Stop.

 

Don't worry about things you can't control.

 

“Ivy?”

 

“Ivy!”

 

A tap on her arm roused her just as the shout made her start.

 

“Page 49, if you don't mind.” Heavy but not cutting. They were all getting tired.

 

To make up for her lapse she watched every beat, but relaxed her hold on the words to let raw emotion bleed through.

 

“What is it?” DiMaggio asked. “Why can't you just let it go, let  _ them _ go, and stay here with me?”

 

“They say I'm crazy,” whispering didn't work on stage, but brittleness came from the same place. “They say I'm crazy because I want things.” Everyone wanted things, not just Marilyn. Why did no one admit how much? “But the things I want...” Maybe that was it. She could never want what she was supposed to want. Ivy thought of her mother, other relationships haunting the blurred edges and spinning more as active plea than resigned loss. “I want love.” Love wasn't for the stars. Not that kind of love, anyway, and the two were nothing like the same. “I don't want... Well. A sex object is a thing.” A slave, even if from afar. Miles or decades. “Who would want to be a thing?” What we want and what we are...

 

She blotted her mouth with the back of her hand, covering a pause longer than she anticipated before drifting watery eyes back up to look at DiMaggio.

 

He was staring at her, but he wasn't DiMaggio. Brandon clapped, light but sincere.

 

She smiled into her shrugged shoulder, biting her lip. He hadn't been expecting a fleshed out reading, he didn't know she'd worked on it before.

 

Trying to maintain the modestly professional, rather than girlishly proud, she spun in her chair to find out where Derek wanted them to start from next.

 

He was staring at her too. When he was intent he usually leaned forwards, as far as he could. Now he was stretched back, lounging and relaxed, except she was having trouble remembering how to breath and he wasn't doing anything but boring into her with unreadable black eyes.

 

And she was still too open from the scene, she couldn't look away and she couldn't put up any walls. She was willing to glare back and forth all day long, if she had to. This was too one-sided.

 

He scared her, but not because-

 

“That's the day” Linda cut in, quietly. Pretending to not look at them, by the way her head was purposefully buried in her book.

 

It was the excuse she needed to break away. When she looked back, Derek was stowing his laptop.

 

It wasn't until she was on the street that she realized it was only ten-to.

 

She was still shaking a little when she got home and threw herself under a scalding spray. She was hotter inside. It had been building all the way home. She wanted him.

 

He wanted her.

 

Her underwear drawer presented choices, and she waffled. They were nothing but Director and Actress, the way she wanted it. She didn't want to fall into the trap of becoming his convenience-lay again. Convenience-girlfriend, she had to accede. Apart from rough moments, they'd been too easily _more_ to be described as less, or to be real. Reliable sex and shop talk when most other people would be offended.

 

She was almost sure. She couldn't be sure of anything, anymore.

 

Black silk and lace cool against her skin, making her look even paler than she was. A light robe was already across her shoulders before she changed her mind, picking up old leggings and a sloppily oversized t-shirt.

 

There were her options. She couldn't know what she wanted until she knew if she needed to make a choice.

 

She would probably do the wrong thing. She always did. Her head knew but her heart led and her gut hoped. And it all sounded so very very possible until... It could be hard to tell which way more danger lay.

 

A lazy read through of the script and a movie later, her nerves were so tired of being so tense even a thorough stretch couldn't loosen them and she couldn't pay attention to much more than her disappointment. She'd been sure, cautiously sure, that Derek would turn up. Last week she'd said no, but earlier, earlier he'd been looking at her as if he'd take her right there if there hadn't been a crowd. She didn't think she'd said no. She hadn't even wanted to, exactly.

 

She wanted him to think about her after rehearsal. Find her even though he wasn't supposed to. Prove she was right, when she thought she knew him well enough to predict what he'd do. Because that was where they'd started, over that scene over their dedication, fascination, adoration of the theatre. Everything else had gone to hell but that would always be there.

 

And she missed him.

 

Of course they couldn't pick up where they'd left off, but this was Broadway: there was always room to start over, change it up. They'd always been good at sex. She smiled into her knees. They might even make okay friends, her own private doorway into the other side of the production. She had talents beyond the stage proper.

 

It was after midnight, she was testing the dryness of a new colour toenail polish when there was a knock on her door.

 

He was already braced on the jam, tracking her. Down her shirt to her toes, up to her undone hair.

 

She fidgeted, over her clothes or what was underneath them. Both maybe. He never looked frumpy, and never looked like he cared, lean and striking even when he was rumpled, scotch cologne tickling her nose. But he didn't get drunk and he wasn't drunk now. Style, not substance.

 

She'd promised herself she'd know when – if – it happened. Tom would be appalled and her mother would probably approve and Sam would non-judgmentally make her judge herself and Eileen would sigh or want to fire her for messing up the plan but he  _ had _ been hers, she thought she'd be happier, the show wouldn't be hurt, and she knew they could still work together as long as-

 

He watched as she slid her palms up his chest, to disappear behind his neck and trail over his ear as she stood up on tippy toe to taste the drinks off his tongue. He opened his mouth, letting her in, but his passivity was starting to worry her until he lined her jaw with his hands, cupped her face like she was fragile and kissed her back.

 

They were blindly making their way towards the bed when she stumbled. He caught at her hip to steady her, running his fingers up and down, and she remembered, jerking her head to the side.

 

They'd shown her to make her feel better. Pictures Dennis had taken in Boston: Derek whispering in Karen's ear as she laughed, holding her waist, her hips, leaning over her shoulder with playful suggestion...

 

He was running his thumb over her cheek.

  
Stop.

  
Don't worry about things you can't control.

 

The pictures were proof that Derek had fired Karen anyway, too. That she wasn't the only one. That Karen wasn't magically untouchable. That she wasn't worse. They shouldn't mean anything else. Nothing had changed. It's not like she didn't know what he thought of- he'd told her himself, while sitting right here, somewhere...

 

It's not like she'd expected him to not sleep with anyone else, not after they were over. It wasn't like she hadn't – _wasn't_ – sort of seeing other people too. He still wanted her. She still wanted him.

 

But she didn't want... Gentleness. Anything _she_ had had. Which would be the only thing _she_ would deserve, or permit.

 

An hours worth of angsting at fluttering heartbeat speed and her mouth was back under his before he could read her. Hands massaging over his shoulders down his arms to tear his hands off her cheeks and land them lower on her body. Karen didn't seem the type to be aggressive.

 

Or maybe she was, behind closed doors, and that was pa-

 

Stop.

 

Nipping at his tongue, pressing herself up and in pulling even closer with nails digging into his back before he took the hint and crushed her to his chest. She'd lost track of where they were, but he obviously hadn't. One arm across her back, other hand hooked under her thigh, he lifted and spun her, depositing her onto the bed before landing over her, specifically not touching her, too far away for what she wanted.

 

He dropped under her urging, pinning her between his body and the mattress. Too close for anything but some rough grinding, and she wrapped her legs around his. She was already wet, the heavy denim crotch of his pants enticingly close. She bit him on the neck and he responded sluggishly.

 

He wasn't even hard. She wasn't offended. He was a little drunk, and she didn't usually jump him. Hot breath wandered across her cheek to overflow her ear, and she pulled his hair to get his mouth back on hers.

 

Not to mention the thing she'd tactfully never mentioned. Derek was getting older, and she suspected that his tendency towards lengthy foreplay was only partly because he liked it and wanted her to like it. And more because he sometimes had trouble getting it up.

 

She slipped a hand under his waistband, gauging the effect as she ran her nails over his ass with varying pressure. It was exciting again, not knowing and wanting to find out. Hitch of breath or tiny flinch; he couldn't hide, and there was truth in that. Things she was learning about him now that she never knew before. Ever since they broke up.

 

Her goal was less cautious, straightforward fun sex. She didn't want him to do anything he didn't want to do, out of guilt (nothing would be worse) or do anything to him he didn't like (truth told she had some fantasies along this line...) She might want to do this again. Probably would want to. Likely would get to, if having the thought wouldn't jinx it.

 

He didn't like a hard edge of pain. But light scratching made him buck his hips sharply against her.

 

A new pattern, not a finale.

 

… How many people would laugh at the thought of Derek letting himself be used?

 

… What were the chances he was playing her, right now, to get a better performance?

 

… Would it matter?

 

Most. Middling. Not really.

 

She didn't know why he thought he was there. Even she doubted it was just about sex, or bedding his leading ladies.

 

He was pushing himself up, tugging at her shirt, and she applauded his initiative. Once she was free, and he was distractedly busy with her corset, she followed a meandering path over his muscles, belt to shoulders, taking his shirt with her.

 

Not that it was her, necessarily. Just want she represented. Some things were so much clearer when he was holding her down by the hips, kissing his way around her decolletage. What he'd say if he knew...

 

The problem with Derek was that he made you doubt everything. Then there'd come a point when you stopped caring. It had started for her, maybe forever ago, but she felt it first when he fired her for the second time. An empty shell around the place where she should have been hurt, and angry, and disappointed and waiting for him to say something that might make it better. 

 

Then tonight, when he tried to kiss her like nothing had happened. It had. But it was like he didn't even know it, it wouldn't even occur to him to be any other way. If he'd been lying or faking or even over-confident she could deal with him as yet another jerk. The best you could say for Derek, he was a jerk in his own league. Life for him really was that simple, laid out in little tableaus.

 

She abraded her fingers on his stubble, rubbing small circles into his jaw for the tingle when she played with his hairline. He was kissing a path along her collar bone, up the side of her neck where he knew she liked it. When he got to her chin she caught his mouth.

 

He was never dead when he kissed, it was one place he was always him. If you learned to read him, like braille. He wasn't Darth Derek. Or Insane. Or a Genius Director. He was just a guy, who cared more about his work than anything else, and could be a majorly insensitive jackass about anything, anyone, in his way.

  
She could relate.

 

A few pokes and he rolled over. They got their pants off that way, before Ivy settled on top, pretending to ride him without touching, giving a show.

 

She still liked him, even when she hated him. It was easier to like him when Bombshell was coming together. There were things they understood about each other, even when they didn't. A good thing and a bad thing, but it was there between them anyway.

 

His nipples were sensitive. She played with them like a cat. The way they'd always done this before, she'd never even thought to try.

 

Derek had slept around, that was old news. He wasn't shy. But there'd been times all throughout their relationship which made more sense in retrospect, all lined up. Times when he was too carefully casual or strangely uncertain or quiet when there was no reason to be.

 

If he didn't pull her hips down in a minute she was going to move things along in a different way.

 

She was pretty sure she knew why he was trying to talk to her weeks ago. She felt a little badly about her reaction, a little confused over whether he'd forgotten about it or not. Sometimes she thought things could hurt him and stick around. Sometimes she thought at best, he thought it was funny.

 

It wasn't her, so much, but what they'd had. Strangely good but weirdly doomed, he couldn't explain it any more than she could. And like a bit of choreography that was never quite right, he couldn't let it go until he understood.

 

Time's up.

 

Unfortunately, relationships weren't something you could understand, plan or control. She'd learned that more than once. That made it a little easier, for her, when it all went to hell.

 

It was a little easier when he tried to kiss her, the other night. It was much easier when he was staring at her earlier like she was the only thing in the world. Almost perfect, now, as he rolled up against her hand planted on his sternum as she fished a condom out of her nightstand. There were many kinds of hell.

 

This was one of the nicer ones. They were over, brutally so, but he was in her bed, wanted to be and wanted her. She brushed her fingers along the underside of his cock as she rolled on the rubber, squeezed and massaged up and down, testing if he was hard enough, every movement echoed by his hands on her thighs. He lost the rhythm when she stroked him, and he tried to flip her over without actually moving her.

 

She obliged.

 

Losing him had hurt. She'd liked him a lot. But the problem was always that someone else got him. Someone who didn't have to earn it the way she had. He gave himself away to everyone else, and threw her away. Even though she was the one he kept waking up next to. She'd given him a key, he'd spent so much time at her place. She did it because it made life easier, and apparently it made her easier too.

 

He pushed in faster and harder, but neither fast nor hard enough. She gasped into his ear and rocked upwards.

 

Guys wanted the drama, the chase, especially men like Derek. She probably had more chance of keeping him like this, panting and confused, than she ever had before.

 

That was very callous of her. Mother's daughter at last.

 

She met him thrust for thrust, forcing him to change his angle when she changed position to gain leverage.

 

He might be back just because nothing else had worked out. There was power in that. If she didn't expect too much. If she didn't want more than she could have. That was one good thing, for what it was worth. She was so used to disappointment, she usually saw it coming before it could catch her unawares. There were things she could have, if she wasn't too proud. He was a powerful Director. He owed her.

 

She came, briefly faltering in her rhythm until she regrouped, pulling him after her.

 

She had made very critical decisions about her life very early on. Broadway was her life. It was everything she was, and in everything she would ever be. Right now, all she wanted to have time for was Bombshell.

 

He was becoming erratic, temple pressed against hers. Asking permission.

 

Bombshell and sex.

 

She pressed her mouth behind his ear as he came, instead, scraped her teeth gently over his earlobe.

 

Everyone wanted love. She found hers in the theatre, in her friends, in the ebb and flow of the city. In the pursuit of stardom. Anything else – well, she was going in with her eyes open. Marilyn hadn't. Maybe.

 

When he collapsed next to her she didn't roll over. She'd always tried so hard, too hard, to be everything.

 

She didn't know what Derek was after, but she was pretty sure he didn't know either. It wouldn't hurt him to deal with a little role reversal. There was no safety in their line of work. 

 

He propped himself up when she didn't, studying her face while she studied her ceiling and he traced and retraced lines up and down her arm.

 

She'd never felt like she had more power than him before. He always had the first question or the last decision or just a stronger belief he was right.

 

She threaded her fingers through his and squeezed, kissing his knuckles in case he misinterpreted the new routine as a permanent brush off.

 

He only had power she gave him. She hadn't slept with him because he was the Director, no matter what anyone thought. And he hadn't given her the role because she did. Marilyn had done the same thing, fall into men without looking back. And never gotten anything out of them at all. Ivy had been there. She could call it back when she needed it. Everything was fodder for an actress.

 

He left her slowly, retiring to the bathroom.

 

She didn't have to be Marilyn. If she was going to lay out her heart, it would be for someone she wanted to risk it for.

 

That had never been Derek. For a while she'd thought that maybe... Well, he'd taken a chunk out of it anyway.

 

He finished dressing in silence, sitting on the edge of the bed by her knees.

 

She didn't actually know what she was doing. She never had. Maybe she was crazy, strapped to a bed in a mental ward dreaming this all up. Or maybe – he made her doubt yet – maybe she was still so wrong about him, herself, them and even how the world worked, and everything would implode yet again.

 

Her life. Welcome to it.

 

She expected him to walk out, but he leaned over, kissing her cheek before he went.

 

Or she was constructing an elaborate story to bury the central, weak reason she was doing this. Hope. The same tiny, burning kernel that had carried her through the last decade. It wasn't like he was the only guy she'd dated. She'd even lived with a couple. But there was something between them, and she wanted it almost as much as she wanted Broadway. If it was one thing, however small, _no one_ else could have or understand.

 

It wasn't something she'd ever get. But if she did – if she did it was something not out of her way. It was something she could only get through Broadway, and only have within it. She'd never have to choose. Because her life always came down to the same decision: Broadway, or something else.

 

Her cheek was cool where a kiss worth of moisture was evaporating.

 

Screw it. Whatever they'd had was mostly ruined for her. There was nothing romantic about it anymore, not even around the edges. Now she wanted to see if they could be anything else, where she wasn't always waiting for the other shoe to drop.. You don't let go of what you want, just because it gets hard.

 

She didn't shower, turned over and drifted to sleep with his smell still on her, the memory of the press of his body still securing her down. It was just like Marilyn. Turning down the part hurt no one but her, any small satisfaction wouldn't last. Derek and Bombshell would always be linked, for her. She could fend him off, but why? She wanted him, he wanted her, and Bombshell made more sense when they were together.

 

Another showmance.

 

Maybe that was it.

 

She stretched into a more comfortable position.

 

Before, she'd never really seen an endpoint for them. Something hazy, something that would never work, beyond the show opening. Now she knew they would exist as long as they worked together every day. It really didn't matter what had come before. She was one in a chain, so was he. But linked to a series of shows. There _was_ no point in worrying about what had come before. They were in the theatre, and the theatre waited for no one.


	7. you didn't have to cut me off

Over the next few weeks, life settled into patterns. Broad ones: wake up, go to rehearsal. Leave rehearsal, go home. Shower, read through the next day's scenes and numbers, go to sleep.

 

Narrow ones: once rehearsals stopped needing to wait for her to catch up, she carefully stayed one step ahead. Which was necessary: schedules for the day were never finalized until the day was over, working through and around adjustments as new actors and actresses came and went, new characters and scenes trickling in every few days as Tom and Julia sat watching only long enough to rush home and flesh out new, better ideas. Sometimes they took old ideas with them, sometimes they brought them back.

 

Whenever they weren't navigating the realities of developing a complet show they'd pin down more and more of the blocking and choreography. Derek would outline his plan, then let them play with it, picking out what he wanted then imposing his will. Sometimes he imposed quite forcefully.

 

Usually he didn't like what she did - not the first time at least - but sometimes his eyebrows raised, and he'd nod for Linda to note it down. Sometimes he hated what she did, and told her why, and sometimes she had to tell herself to Stop, before she started to cry or throw one of the new props at his head.

 

Once or twice she kept doing it anyway because she knew he was wrong, and she liked seeing him strain for control. He was back to his old self, but not quite. The extremes were tempered, a hair, rehearsals all the smoother for it.

 

And he wouldn't yell when she was directly defying him. Maybe he never would have, she never used to try. Maybe that had been her problem. Karen had talked back, all the time once she had the part. With less justification, through that might be the ensemble trying to make her feel better. She didn't think it was.

 

Maybe it was easier for him; he had one Marilyn now, more time, less stress amongst the prod staff. Even Tom had been less vocally opposed to him recently. Ivy certainly felt less stressed. It was hard, the hours were long, she still panicked full out at least twice a week, and spent time with ice and honeyed tea every night, but after what had happened before – nothing could be that bad again.

 

And with her or not, the show was changing. She could feel it. Turn by phrase, note by cue, the heavier moments grew heavier, pure innocence against bleak loss, the public Marilyn floating someplace in between, or maybe she was riding overtop.

 

Innocence had never been her strength, she knew that. It was all the worse coming off Karen's portrayal, which had been nothing but naivety. And heartbreak, it seemed. One betrayal from a boyfriend equaling a lifetime of-

 

Stop.

 

Don't think about things you can't control.

 

They were working the top of the show, most of the cast ranged along the walls or chatting out in the hall. Let Me Be Your Star begged for a belt; she'd always done it that way before. But it shouldn't be, she agreed, sitting with Tom over the break. Not here. It was a moment of transition, of hope. Norma Jean breaking free, dreaming Marilyn into existence, leaving pain behind before her new identity would begin to suffocate her.

 

Tom clapped enthusiastically, but she didn't have to look at his face to know she'd missed the mark. After a second aborted attempt she was pacing in front of the piano under the Shadow Selves gazes, trying to figure out what it _felt_ like. Knowing she didn't have it in her. The third was worse yet.

 

There was too much steel and drive in her own associations. She'd never, not since she could remember, been that lost and directionless. Maybe she could have figured it out before, when she had the same shot at the role as everyone else, rise or stay where she was. Now all she could see were the heights out of reach, the chasm all around, the people, even here, who were happy to push her down without even telling her why, just that she didn't have...

 

Derek cut in on her thoughts. "Right. Early lunch."

 

She propped herself on a chair, sipping at her water and worrying over notes as the remaining cast meandered out in clumps.

 

"I'm hardly going to toss her out the window." Derek's sarcasm could carry though any room. "She can take care of herself."

 

Right there, that was the problem. All she'd ever done, since she was 17, was take care of herself. Even before that, no one took her to rehearsals, auditions, dance classes, voice lessons, got her into an acting program at the local college, helped her live her dream. When she started at age 7 she arranged rides from her friends' mothers, and begged her father for a bike. Leigh allowed it if she could pretend to not see.

 

Marilyn had always, _always_ had help. Sure, she was tossed around for a while, but family sometimes took her in, she was married off to keep her safe, she wasn't working in a non-glamorous job for long before being "discovered" by photographers... Sure some of the men weren't very nice, most of them even, she had always wanted more. Yes she was active and tried to break free and yet. There was always an "and yet."

 

And yet that was a Marilyn she could almost understand, but never quite the Marilyn she was supposed to be.

 

At least a handful of people tended to eat in the space - it was always open over lunch - so she didn't look up to notice how empty it was until Tom put his hand on her shoulder.

 

"I'll be right downstairs. Are you going to be alright?"

 

She blinked back frustrated tears. "Of course," and smiled. Everyone had songs, scenes they wrestled with.

 

Except what he actually meant, she realized as Derek crossed the room, was whether she'd be okay alone with Derek.

 

They'd still never worked one on one, with less than several people or several feet between them.

 

Tom didn't know they-

 

They'd fallen into a pattern too. Two or three times a week they'd catch each others eye during a last run, or while packing up or heading out the door, and he'd be at hers later in the evening. Usually when the day had been rougher than normal. Sometimes when they'd had a breakthrough, some scene or song magically falling into place.

 

Derek thought he never lied. She didn't lie either, not unless she specifically meant to. He never _had_ been that good in bed. It wasn't that he was _bad_ , as his male pride had taken it. He was patient and paid attention and certainly knew what he was doing. Probably some woman would never have a complaint at all.

 

The first few times – and his one night stands and show affairs would be impressed – were a little bit perfect, even before they learned each others bodies. Kissing and touching and slow teasing. Based on a few trashy paperbacks floating around the dressing rooms it was very romantic, the long gentle foreplay and respectful transitions.

 

There were even exciting moments, like when he'd shown up after that Heaven on Earth show...

 

She wasn't adverse to it, far from. But she liked to operate in more than one gear. Hell, even when she was on top he'd had her smooth and vanilla.

 

But there were a lot of things they never talked about, and sex had been one.

 

Now there was still plenty of kissing, but they rarely started with the mouth and never ended there. It wasn't kinky or painful, just bodies first. Just sex.

 

He was still generally tentative, waiting for her to make the first moves, and rarely going far enough even when she encouraged him. In a way it was endearing, like playing with a virgin. In a way it was frustrating, because he was anything but, and after the first few nights she was left wondering if he was making her work this hard because he thought she _wanted_ to boss him around. Maybe she did.

 

Or maybe he'd always wanted to give up control. Who the hell knew?

 

How sex could possibly help at this moment, she wasn't sure, except to know that she wouldn't go along with it.

 

“Ready to try it again?” His voice was light, as was his proffered hand under hers as he led her to the center of the room, guiding her around until she faced the windows.

 

They were always facing the mirrors, unless they were at the piano or dusting the fringes watching others work. It made her nervous, seeing nothing but the skyline in front of her. When she peeked over her shoulder he was setting up a song on the iPod attached to the small stereo used when the pianist wasn't there, or wasn't enough.

 

She turned halfway again, brow furrowed, when the music started, and it wasn't the opener.

 

“Go on.” He waved her back around. “You know it.”

 

She'd always felt like the song was for her. The opening notes of Second Hand White Baby Grand spilled out naturally, the way they had before. Her shoulders were set for corrections but they never came. There was innocence in it, she supposed, the lyrics and how they flowed through the melody. But it was a slow, broken innocence, looking backwards at itself more than anything. A song from so much later in Marilyn's life.

 

The last few words shook, as he walked up behind her, and she managed to not flinch or turn when he rested his knuckles on her hips. All she'd see would be shoulder anyway.

 

“It's the same part of Marilyn,” he murmured into the silence by her ear. “Before she knew how hard life is.” He leaned closer, until she could feel the brush of material against her bare shoulder blades. “Before she knew she could never escape.”

 

She held her breath, bobbing her head.

 

“Good girl.” He ran his hands up her sides, confusing contrast to the impersonal smile in his words. “Do it like that.”

 

The sky was in front of her. They rarely looked back at it, always at themselves, the world outside a backdrop in a reflection. She held on to what she was feeling, opened her chest as if she was ready to fly out without fear. She had no fear. As if what she had to offer was new, maybe a little dented, but beautiful and ready to become whole.

 

Music started again and she stumbled her way though the lyrics, finding new phrasings and overshooting a few notes when she sang wider, farther back in her mouth, higher in her chest.

 

Derek stayed quiet, and she appreciated that. Only a low “Again?” when the song ended, and then she beat him to it with “Again, please,” before the next round was entirely over. She didn't have it yet, but she could get it. She could remember.

 

They ran it again when everyone came back from lunch. This time when Tom clapped, he meant it. Ivy wasn't sure whether he was more proud of her, or of Derek.

 

~*

 

There were still two months until Broadway, long enough to feel miles away. There were only three weeks until a full preview for investors and VIPs; a last taste of what the final product would be.

 

Energy was ramping up, jokes smothered down for after-rehearsal drinks. With Broadway all but a sure thing, almost no one was still in regular shows. There wasn't time. Calls were earlier and nights longer, padded out with costume fittings and then alterations, smaller pieces of set and props moving in and out to make sure they would function.

 

Ivy had the worst of it, as the star. Almost nothing fit, either needing to be taken up or let out, usually both, and every time Derek passed by it was another command for the costume department, and highly backhanded compliments about her body. She didn't take is personally – she was happy with who she was – but the barrage of “short,” “curvy,” “larger,” and “shape” rattled off so clinically had her dreaming of being stretched out 6 inches, tall and tiny, fullness created only by choice.

 

Together, all the cast and the crew, they made it start working. Cogs and gears interlocking. They were all professionals, it was what they did. As things began pulling together, one glaring issue stood out: they'd never worked Diamond, even though it had never officially been cut.

 

For a week she hadn't seen him outside rehearsals. He was avoiding her eye, leaving quickly or tying himself up in conversations or, more often, one-sided arguments. Even when they were leaving at the same time, and he was holding the door for her, he wouldn't look at her. It wasn't personal, she didn't think. He was showing up mornings edgier and crankier, overly dismissive or overly critical. Sometimes unshowered and wearing the same clothes as the day before; you could tell if you knew his closet. He was up late working every night, maybe all night. Whenever he was stuck, that was what he did.

 

The temptation was there to see if he would still make time for her, if she showed up at his door. As his star, he almost had to. Only she didn't want to try, in case one or both of them expected her to end up sitting on the bed with him while he stared at the pages, talking it through.

 

Worse, because it _was_ something she missed. Not even so much spending the time with him, holding the glow of being allowed, invited to watch him at his most vulnerably uncertain. Theatre was who she was, the entirety of it. She loved being there as the disparate pieces came together, helping them, here and there, find a perfect fit.

 

But it wasn't who they were now, if it had ever been who they were then.

 

She still loved watching him work, even if it was only the surface waves buckling up in rehearsals.

 

She knew what the problem was, but they were all feeling the effects as his critiques became louder and harsher and made less and less sense. He was changing choreography without giving them time to practice, expecting costume changes they wouldn't be able to set until they were in the space, and even picking fights with Josh and Linda – the only two people who usually escaped his wrath.

 

It got worse as the week wore on, until they were all dreaming of a light weekend and he ended a run of the USO number leaning heavily on the table, shouting about a slurred line when she'd tripped over Dennis – her fault, - and choreography near the end. Not that she'd messed it up, as far as she could tell, but that she'd done it at all.

 

It was what he'd told her to do the last time. It was in her book. By the frantic flipping, it was in Linda's as well.

 

She would have run out crying if he hadn't glared at her for an extra second, then stalked out himself.

 

"Let's call it a day." Linda's practical tone had enough authority behind it to be followed, even though there was still more than an hour left on the day, and when Derek came back to find everyone gone-

 

Stop.

 

Coffee with Jessica, cathartic denunciation of Derek's mental state, distracted laughter over the latest Spiderman fiasco, and she was still too upset to be alone. A week's worth of tension tugged her shoulders, but she was too sick of the daily drama and tap dance of half-truths to spend the evening with anyone she knew. She didn't want to talk about it. Any of it.

 

She called Peter.

 

They'd fallen into a pattern too. It was like she was living two lives: Marilyn and Derek during the week, Peter on the weekends, whenever their schedules lined up. But they always made plans in advance, and she was vaguely aware that by calling, she was taking their relationship up a very small notch to a new level of... _something_.

 

"Ivy, hey!"

 

"Hi." It was hard to not smile around him, even over the phone. They laughed a lot, all kinds of laughter over all sorts of things. It was what she liked most about him.

 

"How are rehearsals going? You don't have to cancel tomorrow, do you?"

 

They were meeting up Sunday afternoon, activity TBA, in celebration of her last free day until the previews were over. She'd almost forgotten.

 

"No. It's just been a long, long week. I was wondering if you were free to do something?" She felt stupid asking.

 

"A friend of mine's throwing a party, I was going to go," he said cautiously. "But if you'd rather stay in, we can order in-"

 

"A party sounds nice." Maybe it would be too much, but being in a crowd who didn't know her, who wouldn't expect anything or ask _those_ questions, who wouldn't have the latest gossip on anyone she knew, that was exactly what she craved.

 

"Great! Everyone's the strange, crazy but completely non-violent artsy type. Like me, I promise, only more interesting. They'll love you." She pictured his poor efforts to restrain a smile, faux seriousness taking the edge off casual self-deprecation.

 

She nodded, smiling herself, before remembering he couldn't see her.

 

An hour later he picked her up, and they had a leisurely dinner at his favourite diner, which had become her favourite diner too. He'd been appropriately appreciative of the dress she'd chosen: fancy enough to pass as dressed up, but tailored for casual citywear. That was another thing he was good at: noticing without leering. A lot like a gay guy, only, she had cause to know, definitely not gay. It was the artist in him.

 

As it turned out, the people milling throughout the abandoned warehouse wouldn't have cared what she came in. In a good way. They were nice and unrestrained, and while they had their own brand of cattiness, Ivy was an outsider, and barely felt it.

 

A few of them studied her like a new toy, fascinated by parts of her life she'd forgotten were pretty great. At least in retrospect. Her first weeks with Chicago, tales of stage traumas (mostly not hers), a demonstration of basic dance steps while untrained feet mimicked her the way she had mimicked her teacher as a child. There was even an impromptu medley with Rachel, who was a decent alto, and Fern, who may or may not have been trying to sing that off-key.

 

She liked them a lot.

 

"And they _loved_ you," Peter reassured as they walked down the street. It was a little after midnight, still early, but she had afternoon call and wanted to squeeze in a voice lesson and run some errands beforehand.

 

The mayhem of the city made it impractical to walk a girl to her door, _she_ certainly never expected it unless the guy was expecting to follow her inside. But Peter deposited her neatly at the subway station; the next best thing.

 

"So are we still on for," he checked his watch, "tomorrow? Or have I scared you off?" He leaned too casually on the railing as they waited for the train. Average height was still tall next to her, and with a lean athletic build, she'd told him once he could pass for a dancer himself. If only he had rhythm.

 

Except his hair was too long, always almost covering hazel eyes, until it was shoved briefly out of the way.

 

She gave him a quick kiss, because she wanted to.

  
"What did you have in mind?"

 

"You can say no." He picked up her hand, manipulating her fingers. "But you know how I have a show coming up?"

 

She did. It was technically an amateur type thing, but he'd been handpicked and it was at the MET. Art critics always went, even if they rarely liked. It was a pretty big deal. More like massive, really, only Peter liked to play nonchalant. Less disappointment, Ivy figured, if things didn't work out.

 

"I hadn't settled on a theme, but you've got me thinking movement, dancing, Degas only updated." His eyes always brightened when he talked about his work. She supposed hers did too.

 

"That sounds perfect."

 

"And I want you to be my muse, but only if you want – nothing creepy or nude, just let me take pictures and sketch while you... do what you do."

 

Fears of injury invaded her mind, and she pushed them away. Stars took risks. It was flattering that he wanted to use her. And anyway, she liked him.

 

"Of course!" she chirped, kissing him again, a personal contract. "But normally there are a lot of lifts-"

 

"Bring a couple friends – whatever you need." This time he kissed her as the train rolled in, tangling their hair together. "I can even put you all on modest payroll, seeing as how I am With Budget."

 

It was a stupid joke but stupid jokes could be the best. She giggled her way through the doors – she might be a little bit high from secondhand smoke – and watched Peter as he leaned against a column, winking at her as she rolled away.


End file.
